Tarryn Fisher - The Wives

Imagine that your husband has two other wives.

Youve never met the other wives. None of you know each other, and because of this unconventional arrangement, you can see your husband only one day a week. But you love him so much you dont care. Or at least thats what youve told yourself.

But one day, while youre doing laundry, you find a scrap of paper in his pocketan appointment reminder for a woman named Hannah, and you just know its another of the wives.

You thought you were fine with your arrangement, but you cant help yourself: you track her down, and, under false pretenses, you strike up a friendship. Hannah has no idea who you really are. Then Hannah starts showing up to your coffee dates with telltale bruises, and you realize shes being abused by her husband. Who, of course, is also your husband. But youve never known him to be violent, ever.

Who exactly is your husband, and how far would you go to find the truth? Would you risk your own life?

And who is his mysterious third wife?

I couldnt put it down... Nail-biting, heart-clenchingly good from the start, with characters that you both root and cringe for. I loved every word.

New York Times bestselling author Alessandra Torre

Youll have whiplash until the very end. The Wives will leave the most sure-footed reader uneasy until the last word is read.

New York Times bestselling author Colleen Hoover

THE WIVES

Tarryn Fisher

For Colleen

Tarryn Fisher is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of nine novels. Born a sun hater, she currently makes her home in Seattle, Washington, with her children, husband and psychotic husky. She loves connecting with her readers on Instagram.

Contents

H e comes over on Thursday every week. Thats my day, Im Thursday. Its a hopeful day, lost in the middle of the more important days; not the beginning or the end, but a stop. An appetizer to the weekend. Sometimes I wonder about the other days and if they wonder about me. Thats how women are, right? Always wondering about each othercuriosity and spite curdling together in little emotional puddles. Little good that does; if you wonder too hard, youll get everything wrong.

I set the table for two. Im a little buzzed as I lay out the silverware, pausing to consider the etiquette of what goes where. I run my tongue along my teeth and shake my head. Im being silly; its just me and Seth tonightan at-home date. Not that theres anything elsewe dont do regular dates very often at the risk of being seen. Imagine that...not wanting to be seen with your husband. Or your husband not wanting to be seen with you. The vodka I sipped earlier has warmed me, made my limbs loose and careless. I almost knock over the vase of flowers as I place a fork next to a plate: a bouquet of the palest pink roses. I chose them for their sexual innuendo because when youre in a position like mine, being on top of your sexual game is of the utmost importance. Look at these delicate, pink petals. Do they make you think of my clit? Good!

To the right of the vaginal flowers sit two white candles in silver candlestick holders. My mother once told me that under the flickering light of a candle flame, a woman can almost look ten years younger. My mother cared about those things. Every six weeks a doctor slid a needle into her forehead, pumping thirty ccs of Botox into her dermis. She had a subscription to every glossy fashion magazine you could name and collected books on how to keep your husband. No one tries that hard to keep their husband unless theyve already lost him. I used to think her shallow, back when my ideals were untainted by reality. I had big plans to be anything but my mother: to be loved, to be successful, to make beautiful children. But the truth is that the hearts desire is a mere current against the tide of nurture and nature. You can spend your whole life swimming against it and eventually youll get tired and the current of genes and upbringing will pull you under. I became a lot like her and a little bit like me.

I roll the wheel of the lighter with my thumb and hold the flame above the wick. The lighter is a Zippo, the worn remnants of a Union Jack flag on the casing. The flickering tongue reminds me of my brief stint with smoking. To look cool, mostlyI never inhaled, but I lived to see that glowing cherry at my fingertips. My parents bought the candleholders for me as a housewarming gift after I saw them in a Tiffanys catalog. I found them to be predictably classy. When youre newly married, you see a pair of candlestick holders and imagine a lifetime of roast dinners that will go along with them. Dinners much like the one were having tonight. My life is almost perfect.

I glance out the bay window as I fold the napkins, the view of the park spread out beneath me. Its gray outside, typical of Seattle. The view of the park is why I chose this particular unit instead of the much larger, nicer unit overlooking Elliott Bay. While most people would have chosen the view of the water, I prefer a view of peoples lives. A silver-haired couple sits on a bench, staring out at the pathway where cyclists and joggers pass every few minutes. Theyre not touching, though their heads move in unison whenever someone goes by. I wonder if that will be Seth and me one day, and then my cheeks warm as I think of the others. Imagining what the future holds proves difficult when factoring in two other women who share your husband.

I set out the bottle of pinot grigio that I chose from the market earlier today. The label is boring, not something that catches the eye, but the austere-looking man who sold it to me had described its taste in great detail, rubbing his fingers together as he spoke. I cant recall what hed said, even though it was only a few hours ago. Id been distracted, focused on the task of collecting ingredients. Cooking, my mother taught me, is the only good way to be a wife.

Standing back, I examine my work. Overall, its an impressive table, but I am queen of presentation, after all. Everything is just right, the way he likes it, and thus, the way I like it. Its not that I dont have a personality; its just that everything I am is reserved for him. As it should be.

At six oclock sharp, I hear the key turn in the lock and then the whistle of the door opening. I hear the click as it closes, and his keys hitting the table in the entryway. Seth is never late, and when you live a life as complicated as his, order is important. I smooth down the hair I so painstakingly curled and step from the kitchen into the hallway to greet him. Hes looking down at the mail in his hand, raindrops clinging to the tips of his hair.

You got the mail! Thank you. Im embarrassed by the enthusiasm in my voice. Its just the mail, for Gods sake.

He sets the pile down on the little marble table in the entryway, next to his keys, and smiles. There is a tilt in my belly, heat and a flurry of excitement. I step into the breadth of him, inhaling his scent, and burying my face in his neck. Its a nice neck, tan and wide. It holds up a very good head of hair and a face that is traditionally handsome with the tiniest bit of roguish scruff. I nestle into him. Five days is a long time to go without the man you love. In my youth, I considered love a burden. How could you get anything done when you had to consider someone else every second of the day? When I met Seth, that all went out the window. I became my mother: doting, yielding, spread-eagle emotionally and sexually. It both thrilled and revolted me.